


queen you shall be

by pandizzy



Series: daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female!Maegor Targaryen, Half-Sibling Incest, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: Maegara Targaryen is the only child of Queen Visenya and her brother-husband, King Aegon. At birth, she was promised a crown and a husband.
Relationships: Aenys Targaryen/Maegor Targaryen
Series: daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889584
Comments: 18
Kudos: 102





	queen you shall be

**Author's Note:**

> So, obviously, I changed Maegor from being a boy to a girl, and I struggled a lot with it because George RR Martin didn't make his childhood cruelty subtle. Obviously, I wanted to make her less likable, because its still Maegor, just in a different body. aenys x maegor is my toxic otp and im here for it.
> 
> i was going to make this be just a relatively long fic, but realized it would make more sense, chapter-naming wise, if it was this way.

Visenya is unable to stop her disappointment from growing, even a day after the birth. She had been so certain in her capabilities and made sure everyone knew it too. “It is my pleasure to announce that I carry the King’s son in my womb,” she had announced, only six turns before.

She recoils in distaste as she recalls how high her voice was, and how proud she sounded. She had felt great that day, as the members of Aegon’s court clapped politely, even as they looked at each other in uncertainty. Visenya knew why they were so hesitant. They frowned at her sureness and arrogance, for a woman who bore no children for twenty years of marriage couldn’t hope for a son so late in her life.

She told the world that she would bear a son. Not just the King’s child, but his son. A boy born from a dragonlord and a dragonlady, brother and sister bound together by oath. The child of her hopes and dreams.

The maesters at court told her not to be so determined of the child’s gender, as one can only know for sure at birth, but Visenya knew. She asked for it, her nostrils filled with the smoke of her glass candles. Her intentions at the conception had been for a son, a strong son who could inherit the throne if Aegon’s weakling failed to thrive. A son, not a daughter, and yet a daughter is what she was given. Big and strong, just as she prayed for, twice the size of little Aenys, but lacking all those parts necessary for a King.

She rubs her fingers over her curled lips, willing them to smooth down into a smile, and tells herself to take a deep breath. Visenya had prayed for a healthy child that would sire a long lineage of Kings, and mayhaps all hope is not lost. The King already had a son, and the prince would have need of a bride. His father married his sisters, so there would be nothing stopping Aenys from doing the same to the King’s only daughter. An age difference of five years is not so uncommon, or so bad as to prevent the match from happening.

A second son inheriting was too much to hope for, she tells herself, but a daughter had a chance of being queen. Aenys would be King of Westeros one day, and yet his Queen could not be a Westerosi. The Targaryens were from Old Valyria, the last of the dragonlords, and the bloodline must remain pure.

Visenya decides she is not disappointed because she bore a daughter, but rather, because of embarrassment that will arise. Until a name is decided, the girl’s birth will not be announced, but soon everyone will know, and everyone shall remember her promise. Her anger is only directed at the Westerosi nobles, not to herself, and least of all to her precious daughter.

And precious she is. Precious and beautiful. Or at least, Visenya thinks so. Her hair is soft, more silver than gold, and her eyes shine with the dark purple of her father, nearly black. Her face is still swollen and red like those of the newly born, but there are defined features in there, if one only knows how to look. She has Aegon’s nose, and a chin not unlike Orys’, and may even grow to look like her mother in time, if the gods will it so.

Her daughter sleeps peacefully in her cot, tiny hands closed into fists. She arrived during the night, an easy birth that came and went so quickly that she was born before the maester could even send a raven to King’s Landing to warn her father. She cried so hard and so strongly that Visenya was certain of her gender, even when the old man helping her deliver announced the birth of a daughter. A jape, she thinks. Her daughter came to this world mocking her.

But that hardly matters now. Visenya smiles her rare smile, true and big, and leans forward, stroking a long finger down the Princess’ cheek. Aegon will arrive soon, and he’d see the future of their family in there. A strong girl, who could erase all the weak parts of Aenys and sire a son worthy of the Targaryen name. Aegon’s true heir, his flesh and blood. The bells of Dragonstone still ring, and would ring until the end of the day, for their King was a father once more.

As if knowing she was thinking of him, the door opens and her lord saunters in. The older sister in her quickly worries over his pale skin and wide eyes, as well as the hand ever present on the pommel of his sword. Visenya feels regret, not glee, at seeing his carefulness certainly driven by her own warnings, and a sudden mix of sadness and mourning. Only the year before, the dornishmen twice attacked His Grace with intents to kill, and she was forced to create the Kingsguard to protect their family from the Toad’s creatures. After Rhaenys’ death, all hope for peace was lost, and Visenya would have burned Dorne seven times over if only to assuage the empty hole her sister left behind.

Her brother walks next to her, his purple eyes turning to the babe in her cot. If it were Rhaenys, he would have pressed a kiss to her cheek, and spun her around the room in celebration, but Visenya doesn’t allow herself to think about that. Extensive shows of affection were not the way of her and her husband.

And he looks happy, at least. A gentle smile takes his lips, soft and loving, and he places a hand inside the cot, curled thumb touching the Princess’ hand. The child sighs in her sleep, opening her hand and closing it again around the King’s finger. The chuckle that leaves Aegon’s lips is both unfamiliar and a comfort to Visenya, who feels her shoulders loosen with tension.

“A girl,” she murmurs, although her words feel stupid in her mouth. The raven sent by Maester Orwyle would have mentioned that and even if it didn’t, Aegon would have heard the truth from the gossiping servants on his way to the nursery, “Healthy.”

“Good,” Aegon whispers, “That’s good.” He shakes his head and looks at her fleetingly, purple eyes that match her own, “The realm must be noticed of the birth of a princess. I have names…”

Visenya interrupts him, “Where is Aenys?”

Aegon bristles rather visibly. After Rhaenys’ death, her son broke, losing whatever shred of confidence and strength he managed to acquire over his short life. The little prince returned to crawling around as if he were a babe, and many doubted he would live long enough to be King. Visenya was the one who suggested to Aegon that they conceive a child together, a son, in the possibility of a spare heir being needed.

But now she needs Aenys, or rather her daughter does.

“In King’s Landing,” her brother answers, mentioning the city that grew around the outskirts of his Aegonfort, “It was late, when they told me, and I thought riding on Balerion with him wouldn’t be safe. He will come later, by ship.”

Visenya nods, “That’s good. He must be here soon, to meet his future bride.”

Aegon looks at her again, but this time, his eyes are wide and shocked, his mouth hanging open. Visenya looks back at her brother, confused at his surprise, and frowns. Was it her wanting her nephew there that shocked him, or something else? Perhaps he didn’t expect her to speak so callously of a girl just born, but it was in her nature to think ahead, and plan the future.

“What is wrong?” she asks him.

“I thought…” Aegon shakes his head and Visenya feels the need to roll her eyes in annoyance, “He’s five years older than her, and there are some reservations from the Faith about our own marriage.”

“And what? Father was ten years older than Mother.” Visenya says, “We are Targaryens. The Faith’s rules don’t apply to us.” She presses her lips together, angry at his hesitation, “Aenys will wait for a bride if he wishes to produce pure valyrian children.”

“Lord Velaryon has a daughter of age with Aenys,” Aegon retorts, “Alyssa. Like us, the Velaryons are of the dragon’s blood. The faith will not oppose and… I haven’t promised anything, but it’s what is expected.”

“Alyssa Velaryon would be a start,” Visenya says, “And then who would be next? A Hightower, a Tully, a Stark? We are Targaryens. We don’t mingle with lesser men.”

“I know,” Aegon bites back, and his worried eyes turn to the child in her crib. The babe doesn’t seem bothered by their high voices, or even close to being woken up. She only sleeps, stomach full of mother’s milk, “I know.”

“Why are you saying this?” she asks him, voice tense, “You are King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, but our line belongs to Old Valyria. Do you think the dragons will answer to a man of andal stock, even if he calls himself a Targaryen?”

“No.”

He looks away, ashamed of her chastisement, and Visenya remembers her mother, whispering sweet words into her ears. _A little brother may live to be a hundred, but he will always be a little brother._

Visenya sighs, and shakes her body, willing the tension to leave her shoulders. It was all too easy to argue with Aegon, but one can’t simply fight and fight and expect a clean victory at the end of it. She learned this the hard way, with Rhaenys and Dorne.

“I am only saying it for our protection,” she murmurs, “If my daughter grows to claim a dragon of her own and marries, say a Lannister, for example, then there is another Great House who can match your son on the battlefield, and with a claim on the throne to boot. Wars will arise that could be prevented from the right decision in this very room.”

“Fine,” he declares, looking back at her, “Fine. We’ll have it your way.”

It doesn’t feel like a victory, but Visenya will take whatever she can. She smiles a private smile to her brother, although he fails to see it, and turns to her daughter, still deep in slumbers. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of her chest, the Queen would worry about her long nap, even after the maester at Dragonstone assured her that the Princess would live.

“She needs a name,” Visenya murmurs.

“Yes, she does,” Aegon answers, and smiles again. He removes his hand from the pommel of his sword and places it on the edge of the cot, looking over their daughter like a dragon protecting his most precious treasure, “Valaena, after Mother.” His eyes meet hers and he must have seen something in her expression, for he smiles tightly, “You don’t agree.”

It’s not a question. Visenya sighs. Let the singers wax poetry about Aegon and Rhaenys and their ten nights together, for the Queen has her own relationship with her brother. They know each other and understand each other in a way no one could ever understand.

“No,” she says, “I had my own name in mind.”

Aegon looks at her and his smile turns poisonous, and dark, “Do tell.”

Visenya smiles back at him, looking at her brother under her silver lashes. He will not like it, she knows, but she has done many things she didn’t like for his sake and he could very well pay her the same courtesy.

“Maegara,” she whispers, “Maegara Targaryen.”

Something twitches inside Aegon the First of His Name. He widens his eyes slightly, hardly anything that could tell her much, and Visenya could have laughed from the look on his face, if she were not being serious in her choice of name.

“Sister,” he murmurs, poison lacing his voice, “Please, do not tease me.”

“I’m not japing,” she answers, her words equally dark, “If I had a boy as intended, I would have called him Maegor. Is it so bad that I wish to continue my planning with my daughter?”

“The plans aren’t the problem,” Aegon says, his voice filled with anger. Visenya bristles at his tone, and feels her cheeks burn. It is all too easy to argue with her husband, “The name is.”

“What is the matter with it? Maegara is a lovely High Valyrian name.”

“With terrible connotations,” Aegon replies, “Maegara and Maegi. One only needs to see closely to understand.”

Visenya takes a deep breath, huffing, “And? I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done to protect the family and I don’t wish for her to be ashamed either. Our daughter should know her roots and how she came to be.”

Aegon presses his lips together, shaking in anger, and Visenya steps back. Not out of cowardice, but to balance her bodyweight better, if a proper fighting stance became necessary between them. Her husband looks at the babe in her crib and she does the same, a fleeting look to check on her wellbeing only to find dark purple eyes staring back at her. The babe is awake, and she hasn’t even cried from their harsh tones.

“Very well,” Aegon says, still looking at the Princess, “Do whatever you want.”

Visenya feels the anger at her chest deflate, her rage burning away to cinders in her veins, and she sighs, turning back to the cot. She is too old for sibling squabbles with her brother, too old and too motherly.

“Aegon,” she says. She tries not to make her words sound like a warning, but by the look in her King’s face, she must have failed, “I don’t want it to be like this.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Visenya sees the tension leaving his shoulders, his muscles loosening. If she were Rhaenys, she might have pulled him into a kiss, or even an embrace, but she is not. She is Visenya and Rhaenys is long dead.

 _It was always easier with her_ , the Queen remembers. In the early days of their marriage, Rhaenys could assuage even the most terrible fights between her and Aegon, forcing them to make peace for the sake of the family, _Rhaenys was the glue that held us together._

“Me neither,” he says, opening his eyes. Aegon looks back at the cot and he reaches forward with his hands, gathering their daughter into his arms. He holds her expertly like he did Aenys a thousand times, with a hand behind her rump and another securing her soft head, “The Faith will never agree to the match.”

Visenya smiles, “We’ll simply tell them that their rules do not apply to the blood of the dragon.”

Aegon’s mouth twitches and he look at Maegara on his arms, who calmly stares back at him.

“I shall take her with me when I return to King’s Landing,” he murmurs, “She will grow by Aenys’ side. It will make the marriage easier for both.”

For the first time in her entire life, Visenya is at loss for words. She opens and closes her mouth, trying to form a coherent sentence that can define what she feels. Her mind goes to the capital, a stinking city without a touch of familiarity and home. She hates it, never spending more than a full turn in its vicinity, not even when Rhaenys was still alive.

Dragonstone is home. It’s the last remnant of Old Valyria, too far to be hit by the doom. A memory of times past standing still on the waters of the Narrow Sea. On their island, dragons would hatch and grow, filling the skies with their power. She had protested when Aegon refused to make their ancestral seat his capital and refused to even listen to his reasons.

And Aegon wants to take her daughter there. Visenya is old, having just turned forty, and it took effort for this one pregnancy. Maegara would be her only child, and Aegon wants to take her away.

“No,” she says.

“Why not?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

Visenya hesitates, scrambling to find a sensible reason to refuse.

“The Aegonfort is not secure for her,” she answers and, knowing that he’ll mention his son’s safety, continues, “Or Aenys.”

Aegon narrows his eyes until they are only purple slits on his pale face. He doesn’t trust her with Aenys, never has and never will. Visenya still remembers their arguments following Rhaenys’ death, how bitter and destructive they had been.

“He is weak,” she’d whisper, dragging him to the corners at Dragonstone, “The realm you built will shatter under his rule.”

“He is my son!” Aegon would answer, voice rash with resentment and mourning, “My son, my heir.”

“And if he doesn’t live?” Visenya asked. After Rhaenys died, many thought her child who’d always been sickly would soon follow her, “Who shall inherit your throne? Cousin Aethan?”

“He won’t die,” Aegon replied, “I will take care of him.”

It was only a sickness that led him to conceive with her. Before Aenys was gifted his hatchling, a fever burned through him. He almost died, and it took many weeks for him to recover after. At the time, some thought Visenya had poisoned him, and even Aegon considered the idea, although it didn’t stop him visiting her bedchambers a moon’s turn later, agreeing to her plans.

Aegon stares at her, rocking their daughter silently. Maegara is still too young to speak or smile, but she gurgles, tiny little fists struggling against her father’s chest. The King holds her close, and Visenya can’t help but see her as a hostage trapped with the enemy.

“You told me you plan on having Dragonstone as the title of the heir,” she says, “If this will be Aenys’ seat, shouldn’t he grow knowing it as a home?”

Aegon lowers his gaze and shakes his head slightly, a smile taking his lips. He looks at Maegara and gently sets her back on her crib. Visenya doesn’t speak, her words dying on her tongue, and she only watches her brother’s careful movements.

“We agreed we would always speak the truth to each other, didn’t we?” he murmurs.

“I am speaking the truth,” Visenya answers, feeling her skin itch with anger. Outside, she hears Vhagar roaring and she wonders if the dragon senses her rage, mirroring her own feelings, “I don’t want my daughter to grow up in that shitpile of a city.”

Aegon’s expression twitches. The mask of neutrality he so carefully cultivates slips off his face, exposing the rotting darkness underneath, “It’s funny.”

Visenya frowns, “What is?”

“I had forgotten how it’s impossible to deal with you,” he says, “But now I remember.” Aegon looks at Maegara one last time, before turning and walking back to the door from which he came.

Visenya is unable to stop her words from leaving her lips, spilling down her chin like wine, “Where are you going?” she asks and her voice is both angry and demanding, a mixture of regret and resentment.

“Back to King’s Landing,” he answers. Aegon doesn’t spare them a look of goodbye before he leaves, closing the door behind him.

She closes her eyes at the sudden noise of the door hitting the stone wall. It takes everything in her to not follow him, even if she must ride Vhagar to King’s Landing and pull him back from the ear as if they were children once again.

When she opens her eyes again, Visenya turns her gaze to the cot.

“Don’t fret,” she tells the child staring back at her, “We have no need of him. It will be just you and me, little one. Until the end.”

* * *

Maegara twists her lips, looking determinedly at the row of eggs in front of her. Silver, purple, black, bronze. They glow like precious stones under the sunlight, glimmering from different sides as she adjusts her bodyweight. She bites her tongue so hard she can taste blood, her eyes never leaving the dragon eggs before her.

“Do any of them feel warm to you?” Mother asks, standing behind her.

When Maegara looks at the Queen, she sees no gentle smile, or caring eyes, but rather a dutiful and serious expression. Visenya Targaryen has her hair bound up in a bun, turned white from age, and her old purple eyes still burn with the strength of a thousand victories on the battlefield. The great warrior has no spared time to coddle her child.

It doesn’t bother Maegara. She has no need for motherly pampering. If she did, she’d be like her older half-brother, weak and unprepared for the trials of life. Her mother doesn’t spoil her, hindering her abilities, but rather the opposite. Since birth, she has been raised to be Visenya’s mirror, her true legacy, prepared for the trials of a world filled with lesser men.

She still remembers her first sword, gifted to her at three. Wielding it became like second nature to her, and Mother quickly insisted that Ser Gawen Corbray teach her as he would a prince. Even when the septas at Dragonstone protested, claiming that a young girl such as her had no business in learning swordplay, Mother maintained her ground and Maegara would always be thankful for that. She had no business in learning how to play the harp, or how to embroider pretty pictures in a piece of fabric, even if half her day was destined for those stupid lessons.

“Why would they?” the Princess asks, her mouth twisting deeper and deeper into a pout.

Her mother only looks at her, not even saying anything, and Maegara feels her cheeks burn with shame. She smoothed down her expression, lowering her eyebrows in an attempt to seem as neutral as possible, and sighed, rubbing her palms down her skirts.

 _Dresses._ Another useless thing forced on her by septas and servants. Unlike with swordplay, Mother had no qualms about her following traditional fashion, even when the Queen herself preferred breeches to the rigid skirts and silks.

“Warmth means life,” answers Mother at last, pressing her lips in silent disapproval.

Maegara nods and leans forward, rubbing her fingertips against the metallic shells. It is cold to the touch, dead, and she wants to spit to the ground in frustration. She might have, if Mother’s careful eyes weren’t watching her intently, observing her every move. She walks along the row, touching every egg, feeling its sharp scales against her skin. A lesser woman might have feared a cut or a scrape, but she is no lesser woman. She is Princess Maegara of House Targaryen. She is of the Conqueror’s seed. Fear is not something that happens to her.

Minutes, or maybe hours, pass before she steps back, finally giving up. She looks at her mother and lets out a breath, frustration, and anger seeping into her bones. Visenya doesn’t tilt her head, reaching out with a hand to coo and drive away all hurt with a simple treacherous touch. She simply puckers her lips and turns around.

Mother and daughter are at the foot of the Dragonmont, the volcano that rose Dragonstone from the sea more than ten thousand years before. The servants spent hours bringing every egg laid by the more distracted dragons over the years to them, while Mother cancelled her lessons with Maester Orwyle and Septa Sylvia.

“Maybe your dragon has already hatched,” Queen Visenya suggests and tilts her head up slightly. Maegara does the same and sees the hatchlings of Dragonstone flying over them, fighting, and playing amongst themselves. Some are too young to breath fire, while others blow wisps of smoke streaked with curling jets of heat, “When it comes time to choose, choose well. There are no wrong choices, but a dragon is a lifetime companion.”

Maegara watches the creatures flying, spinning, and playing, some going as far as landing near her and Mother. Powerful, some would say, but still not the frightening beasts that helped Father conquer the Seven Kingdoms. It would take time for them to grow, and most would never come close to the Conqueror’s mount. The Black Dread was born in Old Valyria and came with the Exile to Dragonstone as they fled the Doom.

She frowns as she observes the hatchlings. Weak, and too free. _Out of control_. None are worthy of the future Queen of Westeros. She looks at the eggs and the hatchlings, furious that they are her only options.

Maegara turns to her mother, “Where is Balerion?”

For half a second, she thinks she sees an angry shadow cover her mother’s face, her lips twitching. It comes and goes quickly, a movement so fast that she might have missed had she blinked. Her mother’s pale face returns to its usual emptiness and she says, “In King’s Landing. With your father.”

Maegara pouts without meaning to and looks away, not wanting Mother to see the expression on her face. She has failed, clearly, and Visenya Targaryen places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her flesh.

“Is it possible for a dragon to have two riders?” she asks the Queen, trying to make her voice sound sweet and not at all as envious as she feels.

Mother presses her lips in a tight line. Disappointment is clear on her face, as well as something else that Maegara can’t recognize. Anger, perhaps, mixed with distaste. Not an emotion one wishes to evoke on Visenya Targaryen.

“No,” she murmurs, “If you wish to ride upon Balerion, you will have to wait for your father’s death.” Mother looks at her with such an intensity that she almost looks away, unable to hold her gaze, “And, if the gods are good, that will not happen until he is old and grey, laying down in his bed surrounded by the grandchildren you shall give him.”

Maegara gulps down, “Of course. I only meant…”

“I know what you meant,” Mother interrupts her, sharp eyes fleeting, “But it doesn’t matter. You will claim a dragon before your father dies, and that will be that. No rider has ever bonded with two different dragons, even if one is already dead.”

The Princess nods, her cheeks burning with shame. She thinks about a time when she was eight, barely a girl, or a dragon. Maegara remembers her mother’s voice, and how tightly the Queen held her, fingers squeezing hard enough to leave purple marks that took weeks to fade away. It was after the palfrey, she recalls, and the boy, with his face slashed by the dagger she sneaked from the armory.

“You are out of control,” Visenya said and chills run down her spine as she thinks on how her mother didn’t raise her voice. Never even shouted as the guardsmen explained what she had done to the horse, “I will have none of this. No more cruelty. No more games. You will have to be perfect. Do you comprehend how your actions are scrutinized? Your father may yet change his mind and crown Alyssa Velaryon in your place. Would you see that simpering girl with a crown that should be yours? Continue to behave this way and you will all but hand it to her.”

Maegara’s answer, a meek _no_ too foreign for her tongue, did little to assuage her mother. Since then, the Queen seemed to take more interest in her studies, from assuring her that she would attend her lessons with the septas to overseeing Maester Orwyle’s correction of her exercises. Mother wanted her to be perfect in every sense of the way, from how to wield a sword to needlework and singing. A monarch worthy of sitting on her father’s throne.

And Maegara would surely be that.

“Don’t worry,” Mother says, taking her away from the inner corners of her mind, “I rode Vhagar for the first time a little before I married your father.” Her mother gives her one of her rare smiles, tight and straining against her cheeks, “There is still time.”

Maegara nods, even as her heart races inside her chest. She thinks about her grandfather, who never rode a dragon, and then, not for the first time, to the prince in King’s Landing. Aenys has a dragon, Quicksilver, given as a hatchling to him when he himself was a hatchling. Merchants coming from the capital claim that her half-brother would spend more hours on dragonback than not, the perfect Targaryen.

 _It’s not fair_ , she tells herself, _I will be Queen. I should have a dragon of my own._

But it doesn’t matter. It is best if she doesn’t compare herself to Aenys, even if she is his clear superior in every way _other_ than dragon riding. To think about her half-brother standing beside Father in King’s Landing will do her no good, but rather the opposite. Mother says that she shouldn’t think about Aenys, or else her mind will be muddled in anger and she will be distracted from her own learning.

“How did you know which dragon to choose?” Maegara asks, placing her hands in front of her body.

Mother frowns, looking away for a brief second.

“I don’t know,” she says, “When I was a girl, we had many eggs, but little of dragons big enough to ride. Maybe that helped me, not having such a vast arrange of choices.” She smiles, softer and more relaxed, “My sister Rhaenys used to say that she felt like Meraxes was an extension of her body. Not a mount, but rather, herself.”

Maegara nods. Mother rarely talks about her aunt, the deceased Queen and Aenys’ mother. The Princess knows very little about her father’s second wife, other than what transpired in Dorne when the Conqueror tried to bring the savages into his control. Maester Orwyle had hesitated to broach the subject, thinking it a crass affair not fit for the mind of a young princess, but quickly lost his fears. She needed to know history, after all.

And yet, she hated that part of history. King Aegon sent his sister-wife to Dorne to bring them peacefully into their fold, and yet Rhaenys failed. When they declared war, the Dornishmen fought back and dared to kill a dragon before deeming themselves high enough to sue for peace with the Iron Throne. Often enough, Maegara wondered why her father didn’t burn the Rhoynar where they stood, letting their defiance sink into the sand. Instead, the Conqueror allowed them to consider themselves equal to the Targaryen. Monarchs, in their own right.

_Deria Martell assured King Aegon I Targaryen that Dorne wanted peace, but would not swear fealty to the Iron Throne. King Aegon's counselors argued against this, claiming Aegon would look weak if he agreed. In addition, they believed the lords of the Reach and stormlands would feel offended by such a peace._

_King Aegon was ready to refuse the offer when Princess Deria presented him with a letter from her father. Aegon read the letter, his hands clenching it so hard they started to bleed. Once he was done, he burned the letter and immediately flew to Dragonstone upon Balerion. When he returned the next morning, he agreed to the peace and signed a treaty._

After reading such passages in her books, Maegara rose her head and looked at the old Maester in Dragonstone. He had wrinkly and stained skin, with white hair and unfocused eyes. He would die soon, she knew, and a new maester would have to come to Dragonstone. Although she was looking forward to being rid of Orwyle, she didn’t want any newcomers in her family’s castle.

“What was in the letter?” she asked in an uncharacteristic sweetness. Maester Orwyle frowned, stopping his reading of a piece of parchment where she wrote the extensive details of the Last Storm the previous day, “The letter sent by Prince Nymor to my father.”

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” he told her, “The King never told anyone.”

“Not even to my mother?”

The maester shook his head, “I’m afraid your royal mother and father aren’t as close as you’d hope, Princess.”

Maegara looks at Visenya Targaryen and there is nothing in her mother’s face that could show her feelings to anyone else, not even her daughter. Maegara tries to mirror her expression, setting her lips in a tight line, and smoothing down her brows.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mother says, pulling her by the shoulder, “We can try again another day.” They turn away from the Dragonmont, and towards their horses, being held by a servant under the shade of a tree, “It’s your nameday. We can’t very well spend the entire morning looking at dragons.”

The servant helps Maegara to climb her ride, a fine black mare from the Reach, while Mother, an expert rider, does it herself. They don’t talk as they return to the castle, the stormy clouds hanging above Dragonstone.

Maegara can’t help but feel like she has disappointed her mother for not claiming a dragon of her own, but how can Mother understand her troubles? Mother has been riding Vhagar since before the Conquest and would ride her for ever more. Meraxes is dead, alongside her rider, and Balerion _The Black Dread_ that destroyed Harrenhal and burned every Hoare alive is not yet available to her.

When they enter Dragonstone, the castle named after the island, Mother walks ahead, without even looking behind her shoulder to see if her daughter is following. Maegara runs after her, holding her skirts in one hand as she is led by the Queen to her solar.

As she arrives in the solar, Maegara’s eyes go to the wrapped package in her mother’s table. Her heart races as she approaches, her hands itching to grab what most likely is a present for her. She looks at her mother, purple eyes meeting, and sees that the Queen is smiling.

“Go on,” she says, “Open it. It’s not every day that you turn three and ten.”

Maegara can barely contain her eagerness as she undoes the packaging, ripping open the fine parchment used to wrap her gift. Her chin drops as she reveals a glorious sword with a dark gray pommel, a golden dragon engraved on the handle with rubies for its eyes. The blade is slim, she sees, and designed for a woman’s hand.

Maegara knows the name of the sword, for she has seen it in her mother’s hip a thousand times before. “Dark Sister,” she responds in a hushed and amazed tone. Her hands fly to the pommel of the sword and she holds it, not surprised with how right it feels on her hand.

Mother had let her train with the weapon occasionally, but this was different. This was a gift. Dark Sister would not be Visenya’s sword, but rather, Maegara’s. It would look lovely on her hip, and even more so later, when she would drive the blade into an enemy’s chest and watch them die in front of her.

“I’m old, child,” Mother says, “I am not as strong as I used to be. I can’t wield it effectively, and its high time that I accept the new order.” Mother’s smile turns darker, and poisonous, “You need a blade of your own, and what better than one of the ancestral swords of our house?” Visenya walks around the table until she is standing in front of her daughter. Maegara has always been tall, and strong, even in her early childhood, and she towers over her mother. The Queen, however, shows no sign of noticing it, as she places her hands on her face, caressing her cheeks, “This sword is only the beginning. Soon, your fate will catch up to you, and everything I have done will not be for naught.”

“I will make you proud,” Maegara whispers.

Mother presses her lips together, “You are Maegara Targaryen, daughter of the dragons, and one day, you will be Queen.” She brushes a lock of silver-gold hair behind the Princess’ ear, “Repeat it.”

“I am Maegara Targaryen, daughter of the dragons, and one day, I will be Queen!” she says, her voice rising and Mother smiles.

 _One day,_ she tells herself, excited at the prospect, _I will sit on my father’s throne and everyone will have to bow to me, for I will be their undoubted Queen._

Even Aenys. Her weakling older brother will be the first to accept her rule, or else she will make him rue the Gods that made him a Targaryen.

* * *

Septa Sylvia hums as they weave, dark eyes focusing on the half-finished tapestry in front of her. Maegara taps her fingers against her thigh, willing herself to not snap at the woman at her side, and continues plucking the fabric with her needle.

It is supposed to represent the Conquest, a long work that will be presented to the King on his nameday, if Maegara is deemed worthy enough to attend the feast. It was Mother’s idea, and she quickly announced it in front of the court of Dragonstone, stopping Maegara from somehow preventing this entire nonsense.

They had been working on it for an entire fortnight, depicting every major event from her parents’ war. That day, not surprisingly, Septa Sylvia has chosen to work on Father’s coronation at Oldtown, when he knelt in front of the High Septon to be anointed as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Maegara embroiders Balerion’s scaly black, wings flapping as he flies over Harrenhal, unleashing a black jet of fire with red swirls. She bites her inner cheek, concentrating, and Septa Sylvia continues her annoying humming.

“Your work is finely done, Princess,” the other woman murmurs. She had protested about the image at first, but when Maegara replied that the destruction of Harrenhal was a pivot moment in the war, she shut her mouth, “And to think how much Her Grace has advanced in her needlework in such little time.”

“My mother insists that I practice,” Maegara responds, hoping to convey how much she hated embroidery, and how she only did it to please her mother.

“The Queen has the right idea,” Septa Sylvia says, “And you would be much better if you’d practice more, instead of spending half your day on the courtyard with the boys, Princess.”

“My mother says that I must also learn how to wield a sword,” she replies, knotting her black thread just under Harrenhal’s Widow Tower, “And my mother is the Queen and the lady of this castle.” She turns to Septa Sylvia, “Isn’t she?”

Septa Sylvia gulps visibly. She has been working in Dragonstone since before Maegara’s birth, when King Aegon converted and built septs around the volcanic island to showcase his loyalty to the Faith. She saw Maegara grow and yet, there is still something in her that fears the princess, she knows. Mayhaps because her royal parents are siblings, and the Faith considers its product to be an abomination. Perhaps because of something else.

“Yes, she is,” Septa Sylvia says. She turns back to her square, tying her silver thread to finish King Aegon’s hair, “But a lady has no need for an ability with the sword. The guards here at Dragonstone will keep you safe.”

“But I am not a lady,” Maegara bites back, angry at her stubbornness, “I am a Princess.”

She is distracted for barely a second, and it’s all it takes. The needle in her hand pricks her index finger, and globs of blood slide down her skin, staining the tapestry’s fine fabric. Maegara looks at her sore finger, watching as she slowly stops bleeding.

Her eyes go to Septa Sylvia, who is still sewing as if nothing has happened.

“One day, you shall wed a man worthy of you, maybe one of your Baratheon cousins, and he will not a want a wife who knows how to wield a sword,” the Septa admonishes.

“Maybe so,” Maegara says, “But I will be Queen one day and no man will rule me.”

Septa Sylvia clicks her tongue disapprovingly, shaking her head. “Her Grace has an older brother and sons come before daughters.” _Half-brother,_ Maegara thinks, anger coursing through her veins, “Prince Aenys will inherit your father’s throne and you shall marry a Great Lord to secure an alliance for your family.”

“Aenys is weak,” Maegara answers, her entire body shaking, “He is not fit to sit on the Iron Throne. Mother says so.”

“Your mother says many things,” Septa Sylvia murmurs, “You shouldn’t heed her every word.”

Maegara turns to the woman, ready to say that her mother is the greatest woman in the entire world. A dragon rider, and a warrior from the blood of Old Valyria, the only remaining Queen of King Aegon. Visenya Targaryen took the Eyrie without bloodshed, securing the Vale for her husband, while her sister failed in Dorne, and her brother was crowned in Oldtown.

Before she can, however, the door opens and one of her mother’s guard enters, tall and broad. Maegara can’t remember his name, only that he’s a dragonseed, with dark brown hair and light violet eyes. He looks at them for half a second before bowing his head.

“Her Grace the Queen wishes to speak with the Princess,” he says.

 _What could Mother want?,_ Maegara thinks, standing up. Septa Sylvia looks at her as she brushes her palms down her blue skirts, but doesn’t say anything when she leaves, following the guard to her mother’s solar.

She passes servants in her way, who bow in sight of her, and a sudden sense of pride takes her stomach. Maegara has her silver hair braided in a ring around her head, mimicking a crown, and she wears a dress made of Volantene silk, wrapping her body in the old Valyrian style. Some say she has her mother’s look, an austere and harsh beauty, softened by her age and innocence — even if Maegara would be quick to refute that. A beautiful princess who would grow to be a mighty Queen, with kings and lords bowing before her.

As she enters Mother’s solar, she sees that Queen Visenya is standing behind her desk, holding a piece of paper in her hand. The door closes and still, Mother doesn’t look at her, reading silently, violet eyes going from one side of the parchment to the other. Maegara places her hands in front of her body, waiting as her patience runs thin.

Minutes pass and Mother still doesn’t say anything, simply standing there and reading her papers. She doesn’t even acknowledge Maegara’s presence, acting like she’s not there.

“Mother?” Maegara calls, unable to keep her frustration from seeping into her voice, “You asked for me?”

“Yes,” Queen Visenya Targaryen says, still not looking at her, “I have been summoned to King’s Landing. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

Maegara nods, already turning to leave, “My things will be packed before nightfall.”

“No, no, no,” her mother says, shaking her head, “You are not coming with me.”

“What?” Maegara asks, meeting her mother’s eyes. Violet and dark purple, swimming together with emotion, “Why not?”

“Your presence isn’t requested,” Mother answers, “So you are not coming.”

Maegara steps back, mouth hanging open. She struggles to find words to convey her feelings of anger and rejection, and only stares at her Mother, who doesn’t show any sign of recognizing the effect her words had on her daughter.

She swallows down her feelings and opens and closes her mouth, trying to say something neutral and princessly.

“What does the King want with you?” she asks, finally finding her voice. Maegara sets her back and posture as firmly as possible, not letting her legs shake beneath her weight.

“He claims to have grown tired of the Aegonfort, and wishes for a new seat for our House in King’s Landing,” Mother says, “I am to oversee the construction, while your father and his court move here to Dragonstone.”

Maegara blinks and surprise overflows her stomach, threatening to spill over to her insides.

“Father…” she hesitates, “Father is coming to Dragonstone?”

Visenya sighs, shaking her head, “Yes, I’ve just said that.” She presses her lips together, taking a deep breath, “They will arrive after I have already left, but be assured that I expect you to be on your best behavior, and that I’ll know if you are not.”

“Yes, Mother,” Maegara says.

Visenya smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She turns her eyes to her parchments again, reading another one, “You shall be obedient to your father, and sweet and charming to your brother. If the heir likes you enough, you and Aenys will be wed on your fourteenth nameday.”

Maegara widens her eyes. Her stomach drops and her heart races, threatening to slip out between her ribs. She feels her mouth run dry as her hands shake, clammy and cold. Her and _Aenys_? The simple idea of it is too much for her, bouncing in her brain and mind until a sharp headache takes over.

And Mother called him ‘the heir’. _Mother,_ who would lay her down to sleep as a child and promise her a throne, braiding her hair in rings around her head to resemble what she would once be given. Mother who promised Maegara that she would sit in her father’s seat as the High Septon placed his crown on her head, and the lords of all Seven Kingdoms would bow before her.

_Didn’t she?_

“What?” she asks, shocked, “What did you say?”

Mother puckers her lips in sight of her insolence, and disappointment is clear on her pale face.

“Watch your mouth, Maegara. I may be leaving, but I’m still the Queen, and your mother,” she says, “I deserve respect.”

“But-But,” Maegara stutters, “But you said…”

“I said what?” Visenya raises an eyebrow, silver and white in color.

When the worlds die in her throat and she chokes in the truth of what’s happening before her, what has been happening since her birth, her mother loses her patience.

“Speak, Maegara!”

“You said I’d be Queen!” she cries out, voice rising in sadness and anger.

Mother smiles again and walks around the table until she is standing in front of her. Her old hands stroke Maegara’s cheeks, a gentle touch so foreign that her hands struggle by her sides, fingers twisting in themselves, and her skin burns.

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” she whispers and Maegara can’t help but feel like her mother is mocking her, “Everything I have ever told you since the day you were born was nothing less than the truth.”

“But-But…”

“Aenys will be King after your father dies, and you will be his Queen,” Mother says, tapping her cheek. Her smile is meant to be perceived as gentle and promising, but Maegara can only see Vhagar in her mother’s expression. The deadly she-dragon with black fangs and a hundred battles in its history.

“ _His_ ,” Maegara repeats, poison lacing her tongue, “His property, you mean. His wife.”

“His sister-wife,” Visenya corrects, twisting her lips in displeasure, “Targaryens have been wedding brother to sister for a thousand years. Since before the Doom.”

“You always said Aenys was weak,” Maegara says, not knowing why she’s still fighting against it, “Unfit to rule. And now you want me to wed him? To bear him children?”

“I said that, because I knew he’d need you,” Mother murmurs, “Aenys is insecure. Unreliable and ever-changing. He lacks the strength to rule others. When the time comes for him to ascend to the Iron Throne, he shall need true protectors. And you will be one of them, or he will lose his crown and your son’s.” She presses her lips together, “To protect the King is a Queen’s duty, as well as a sister’s.”

Were she a weaker woman, Maegara might have fainted. The world spins around her and her head feels heavy, stubborn tears burning her eyes. She looks at her mother, who has always told her the truth, and sees resignation in her eyes, the type of resignation brought from years of mulling the same subject over and over. Maegara sees that this has been planned since the moment she came out from the womb, possessing the parts that could be used to produce another Targaryen of pure Valyrian blood. Mother and Father have planned this, together, in the same way they planned the conquest.

 _Fire and Blood,_ she thinks as her heart slows down.

Maegara takes a deep breath, willing herself to relax. She looks at her mother as if it was the first time. Visenya has large eyes and a thin nose, turned upwards. Her features are chiseled, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. As a child, Maegara thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, but she quickly learned that beauty is not all that matters. In fact, it matters less and less as a person grows.

“And what if I don’t want to marry him?”

Mother makes a face, as if what Maegara is saying is completely unbelievable and even slightly funny. She smiles, arching her eyebrows, and her thumbs rub Maegara’s cheekbone gently.

“Then I suppose you shall remain unmarried, for who else would you marry?” she asks, “And who else would _he_ marry when the perfect candidate stands right before me?”

 _Alyssa Velaryon,_ Maegara thinks and her stomach fills with hate at the name. Her entire life, Mother had warned her about Alyssa Velaryon and Father crowning the young Lady in her place. For ages, she thought Alyssa was the best option for Queen after Maegara, for her Targaryen blood, even if diluted, gave her a claim to all lands held by Aegon. The idea never sat well with her mind, it didn’t make sense, but Mother’s words make everything fall into place in her head.

Alyssa Velaryon was Father’s next option in a bride for Aenys and, being the same age as Maegara’s half-brother, maybe even his first, before the Princess was born.

“Don’t you want children?” her mother asks, “I remember how happy I was when you were born, how joyful that day was. I thought you would want the same.”

Maegara shakes her head, “Yes.”

Mother’s smile tightens, but her eyes still glint, tiny dimples appearing at the corners of her cheeks.

“Then it’s settled, my child. You will marry Aenys when the time is right,” she says, and she must have seen something in Maegara’s eyes for she adds, “Don’t worry, for I see great things in your future, Maegara Targaryen."

* * *

Maegara could count on one hand the number of times she has seen her half-brother and father and still have fingers left to spare. Father rarely comes to Dragonstone, and Aenys never did, so the opportunities to see the other half of her family are sparse. King Aegon came to her sixth nameday, and she visited King’s Landing for the celebrations of the twentieth year of Father’s reign with Mother when she was eight.

As the bells ring to welcome Father, she tries to picture his face in her mind. Her memory is muddled and rough, covered by a milky cloud of time, but still an image comes to her eyes. She thinks of a rough beard and short silver hair, covered by his Valyrian steel crown adorned with rubies. Maegara can’t recall the exact shade of purple his eyes are, but she remembers he brought her a doll on his personal visit and had her seat between him and Mother at the celebratory feast.

Aenys, however, is a mystery in her head. She last saw him when he was three and ten, all courtesies and insecurities, kissing her hand awkwardly and whispering, “Dear sister,” to her with stilted pleasantries, as if they were strangers. Maegara is unable to remember his face, much less the color of his hair, and she twists her fingers in her skirts in annoyance.

She stands in the Great Hall of Dragonstone, beside her mother’s empty seat, as every servant, minor noble, and person of importance waits for their King. Maester Orwyle is on the other side of the chair, and Septa Sylvia stands behind her, watching her posture with black focused eyes.

Maegara is wearing her finest black gown, with tight sleeves and flowy skirts, but she feels out of place in it. The lace on her collar rubs wrongly against her skin, like tiny little nails, and her necklace, made of a long silver cord that hangs low on her chest and an enormous ruby the size and shape of an egg, feels heavy on her neck. Her hair, more silver than gold, has been brushed into a hundred braids, pinned to her head with small rubies that reflect the candlelight as she looks one way and then another. Her head hurts like she has fallen during training and she can barely breathe with the pressure of her corset on her ribs. Or maybe, it’s due to something else. Maybe she is nervous.

 _Impossible,_ she tells herself, as the herald announces the arrival of King Aegon, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, _It’s just Father and Aenys. There is nothing to worry about._

Maegara takes her skirt in hands as she curtsies, looking pointedly to the ground. She hears heavy steps walking inside the hall, more than two men, and the sigh of a King looking to his bent people. Her heart races as the footsteps come closer to her and two black boots come into her vision, someone who is standing right in front of her. She maintains her posture even as her heart races, beating so hard that her chest aches from it.

A hand enters her sight, a gentle finger curling under her chin and Father raises her head until their eyes meet, purple to purple. Maegara opens her mouth to say something, anything, but the words die on her throat as she looks at her father.

His face is different than what she had imagined, softer and older, and she tells herself not to be disappointed by it. Although he is taller than her, it’s not by much, and Maegara thinks there will come a time where she reaches him. There are crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes that become more pronounced as he smiles, looking at her with loving dark purple eyes.

“Sweet child,” he says, and her skin smarts from hearing it, “How much you have grown.”

“I’m sure I look very different from the last time His Grace saw me,” she tells him, “As I was only eight-years-old then.”

He frowns slightly as if trying to understand the true meaning of her words but quickly smooths down his expression. He takes his hand off her chin, opening his arms to embrace her, and Maegara hesitates before stepping forward.

A chill runs down her spine as he hugs her, unused to such gentle moments, and she tries not to let go of him, despite every fiber of her being telling her so. Maegara lays her head on his shoulder as she has seen others do a hundred times, her mouth set in a tense line. She looks around the room, to all those who are still curtsying, and she sees a young man standing.

He is tall, and slender, looking at her and Father. His eyes are pale lilac, moving nervously on his face, and his curly hair falls to his shoulder in ringlets. His fingers are covered in expensive rings of silver and gold, and he has two earrings of silver adorned with rubies. He is dressed in a black doublet with the Targaryen red dragon embroidered on it, hands clasped behind her back. She knows just by looking at him that he is her half-brother Aenys, the heir to the Iron Throne and, if Mother has her way, her soon-to-be husband.

After what feels like hellish hours, King Aegon lets go of Maegara, clasping his hands on her shoulders. “Rise!” he tells the others, eyes still turned to her, and those in attendance stand from their bent knees.

Maegara looks at her father, the man she hardly recognizes and doesn’t know, and realizes she doesn’t want him there. Nor does she want Aenys. Everything was going well when they lived in King’s Landing, why did it have to change? Why did Mother have to leave Dragonstone and Maegara? Five years passed without even as much as a visit and she didn’t care. She had Mother and training and her dreams of a future where men called her Queen. Things were the way she liked, why did they have to change?

She has no need for a father. Once, perhaps, she might have, but not anymore. The Conqueror made sure of that when he failed to see her for five whole years.

 _You called me sweet, but I was never sweet,_ she wants to tell him, so he will go back to the capital, _You would know that if you cared._

Mother cares. Mother has always cared. She nursed Maegara at her own breast, taught her everything she knows. Why did Mother have to leave so Father could come?

King Aegon presses a hand to her cheek and she leans away from his touch without thinking. He looks at her, widening his eyes ever so slightly, and Maegara sets her mouth in a tense line, not averting her eyes from him. 

“You look well,” he tells her.

“Thank you,” she answers, remembering how her mother told her to be obedient to Father, “His Grace’s words are very kind.”

“Please, child,” King Aegon says, and she wonders if he has forgotten her name, for it’s the second time he calls her a child. It would certainly offend her less than the simple idea of him seeing her as a simpering little girl, “There is no need for formalities between us. We are family.”

 _Are we?,_ she thinks as a pleased and fake smile takes her lips.

But she doesn’t say anything. Father lets go of her arms and turns, looking at Aenys standing behind him. With the wave of a hand, the heir walks in their direction, directed by the King. He is quiet and insecure, uncomfortable on his two feet.

“I don’t have to introduce you to your brother, Aenys,” Father says, planting a hand on Aenys’ shoulder, fingers curling.

The heir to the throne curtsies slightly, and Maegara’s smile dies.

“Don’t bow to me,” she says, the words leaving her lips before she can stop them, “You’re not my inferior.”

Aenys frowns and Father widens his eyes more than subtlety. They both look at her, father and son, king and heir, and she wishes Mother were there to agree with her.

Her half-brother nods, cheeks flushing red, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

Before she can tell him not to apologize, Father places his free hand on her shoulder, the smile returning to his face.

“My two children are with me once more,” he says, happiness overflowing his words, “As it should have been all along.”

Maegara frowns at his words, lips twisting into a pout. _As it should have been all along?_

Catching her error, she quickly relaxes her expression, hoping no one caught it. She looks at Father once more, and then at Aenys, whose lilac eyes are turned to her in a questioning gaze. Without a doubt, she knows he has seen her distaste at Father’s phrase, and if he saw...

Not one to be outdone, Maegara returns his stare, setting her chin down in defiance. Aenys looks away, to Father, but he still watches her from the corner of his eye.

 _He is scared of me,_ she thinks to herself, feeling proud. _Good. He should be._

Maester Orwyle, perhaps sensing the air in the room, steps forward, hiding his hands in his bell sleeves. The man is old and wrinkly, with white hair that falls on his shoulders and milky eyes that get more and more blind with the passing months. Mother left him in charge of the castle for the few hours between her leaving and Father arriving, the castle and Maegara.

“Your Grace,” he says, bowing his head slightly, “Please, allow me to escort you and the prince to your rooms.”

King Aegon looks at Maegara once more, before nodding, removing his hand from her shoulder. She takes a deep breath and steps back, settling her hands on each side of her body. Father and Aenys look at her, perhaps expecting her to ask to go along, and she only looks back at them, trying to maintain her face as neutral as possible.

They leave before she says anything, leaving the Great Hall from a side door. Maegara watches as the other members of her mother’s court leave as well, surely disappointed from the lack of attention from the King. Soon she is alone, looking around in an attempt to decide what to do now with her father and half-brother there. She doesn’t want to meet them by accident in one of the corridors, but Maester Orwyle and Septa Sylvia cancelled her lessons for the day due to the royal arrival and there would be a feast later to celebrate it.

Maegara is not as fond of riding as her mother, especially not after the palfrey incident, and she isn’t too keen on books and reading. Her dress is too restricting for sword fighting, and she would have to go all the way to her rooms to change it if she wanted to train, even if just for a bit.

She starts walking without a direction in mind, moving aimlessly around her home. For her entire childhood, she had explored these halls enough to know them expertly, like an invisible map inside her head. She knows every nook and corner, every crevice.

 _He will never have this,_ she thinks, Aenys’ face coming to her mind, _He may be the future King, but he will never hold Dragonstone like I do._

She arrives in her chambers just a few minutes later, a fresh ocean breeze sweeping inside the room. Maegara sits in front of her vanity, looking at her reflection in the looking glass. She places her hand on her cheek, supporting her head on her elbow.

The girl that stares at her is beautiful, as all valyrians are. Maegara looks like her mother, but she can still see some of her father in her features. She has his long nose and the sharp curve of his chin, and her eyes are as dark as his, a purple so deep that it almost passes as black. And she notices, not without a sense of disgust in her heart, that her pink lips are like Aenys’, heart-shaped and full.

“It’s normal,” the girl in her reflection says, “Siblings are meant to be alike.”

Maegara frowns, her entire body shaking, and she feels her skin ache with anger. Her face burns, flushing red from embarrassment. It’s not a pretty look and if Mother were there, she’d tell her to relax, and calm down, or else face the consequences for her lack of restraint.

But Mother is in King’s Landing and there’s nothing holding her back.

“I am nothing like him,” she tells herself, “He is weak and I’m…” Her words fail her, disappearing completely from her mind, and she blinks. _He’s weak, but what am I?_ She may be strong, but she was a girl, and younger, nonetheless. Father had Aenys by his side every day, while he never visited her and Mother, rarely sent letters. He wouldn’t do that to a child he considered to be his heir.

Because she was never his heir. Even if she had been born a boy, Father still wouldn’t displace Aenys. Would never even consider it, much less give the idea anything more than a passing thought. Her half-brother would always come before her in the line of succession, not just because of his status as the firstborn, or the cock between his legs, but because of who his mother was.

 _King Aegon married Visenya out of duty, and Rhaenys out of desire,_ the singers said, claiming that for every night Father spent with her mother, he’d spend the next ten with Aunt Rhaenys. When his queen died, Aegon burned every seat and holding in Dorne twice in what was called the dragon’s wroth.

Maegara would listen to the stories with a sense of annoyance to her, angry at something that happened many years before the conquest. It isn’t fair, she would think. Father ought to not have married Rhaenys. The old valyrians rarely did, only when it was necessary to assure the future of a dying family, and the Targaryens had enough hope for a fertile marriage between her parents. Rhaenys belonged to Uncle Orys, or maybe one of the Velaryons, while Father and Mother were meant to be together.

But Father defied his father’s wishes and married both sisters. Maegara thinks that Mother should have produced a son, and Rhaenys a daughter, as to make things right, but the gods were never fair. Their mockery had made Maegara and Aenys, twisting their insides whilst they were in their mother’s wombs to entertain them. _I should have been a boy,_ she thinks, _then he’d be my sister-wife._

It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

She feels tears prickle her eyes, burning her lids as they threaten to spill over, and Maegara looks at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, and she is pouting without meaning to, but her purple eyes fly from her face to her hair.

A hundred times before she had asked her handmaidens to make it look like Mother’s, thinking she had the face of a ruler in a girl’s body, but now she realizes how silly it truly is. That morning, when she sat in this same vanity and gave orders to her maids, she thought she would look like a Queen in Father’s eyes, to remind him of his true wife and the true lady of this castle, but instead, she looked like a little girl caught playing with her mother’s clothes. Silly and infantile. Stupid.

She raises her arms, trying to take every little pin from her hair with her trembling fingers. It’s harder without the maids, or even someone behind her to guide her efforts, but she slowly gets it done. As the pins come off, and chunks of silver hair fall to her shoulders, Maegara feels her throat burn with unshed tears of anger and sadness. There is a knot in her heart, making every beat hurt between her ribs, and she remembers her brother in the Great Hall, nervously looking at her. It wasn’t just fear in his eyes, she realizes, it was also curiosity.

Father must have told him. Maybe just before they left King’s Landing, or perhaps Aenys has always known that they would be wed one day. _Aenys will be King after your father dies, and you will be his Queen,_ Mother said, and Mother never lied, especially not to her.

When she is done, Maegara looks at her reflection once again. Her hair falls in waves, more silver than gold, and she looks ragged. Her face is pale, but her lips are bloodred.

“You are Maegara of House Targaryen, daughter of dragons,” she tells the girl in the mirror, “And someday you will be Queen.”


End file.
